Kaminari

“Kaminari,”

the girl’s voice, snatched

up with scattered leaves

shaped like fans – giant

fans with stubbled branches - lashes

against the window panes

of the school standing at her back,

The sky is purple, black – enormous

bruise but throbbing. Inazuma, she yells

at splinters of light and I almost

understand the clipped syllables

of this other language, but

my words, swallowed by wind,

trail behind the girl, now running,

her unbuttoned jacket slapping her chest.

Rain pelts tiled rooftops, the tops of our heads.

My umbrella is in the hall closet.

The school doors are locked. The girl

stands on the curb, long strands of hair

plastered to her jacket. Turning, she says

words I cannot hear, mouth opening

and closing like a fish. Asphalt blackens

as I walk to her, rain falling from our lips.

Erinn Bentley, May 2006